


hanging on to what i don't know

by pricelessmaple



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Romance, Day At The Beach, Emotional Hurt, Everything Hurts, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Love, M/M, Pining, Pre-Canon, Romance, Sad and Sweet, The Author Regrets Everything, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26068684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pricelessmaple/pseuds/pricelessmaple
Summary: He laughs, and Andrés turns to give him a confused look. “I was worried you had forgotten that you brought me along with you,” he explains, and Andrés chuckles as he shakes his head. “Keep that mindset. It’s always important to believe in the impossible.”Martín’s eyes lock onto the sight of him taking off his shirt. It’s not often he gets to see Andrés in less than a suit, so he’s going to enjoy it, but his words still linger in Martín’s mind, and if he didn’t know him so well, he might have asked what he meant. (If he had, Andrés would smile, comment about how he already knows what it means, and it would be like the question was never asked in the first place.)--OR: Martín spends a night out with Andrés. they go to the beach. he thinks about what they are and what they can never be. (love's unkind / spiteful in a million ways.)
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Original Female Character(s), Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	hanging on to what i don't know

**Author's Note:**

> this is a Frankenstein of a piece bro,, less of a coherent plot and more 20 different ideas stitched together, and it's repetitive, and vERY OOC but! that's okay I had fun projecting for 7k words :)  
> and of course, if you found this awful, I highly urge you to read works by boom_slap, dashwood, Shotgun_Cake, phcbosz, and givebackmylifecas, because they're all incredible writers who deserve your time, and who understand these characters far more than me (seriously how do they do it)  
> also, of course, title taken from I Always Knew by The Vaccines

He stares off at the skyline, listening to the waves and basking in the comfortable silence between them. Andrés dragged him to the beach, and as much as he threw a fit earlier about the sand, and the people, and the heat- he can’t say he’s not enjoying it. It’s always worth it to see Andrés happy. Besides, he never has been able to say no to those dark puppy dog eyes.

Martín looks over at the page he’s sketching on, the penned scenery and assorted faces - none of them his own - and tries not to spend too much noticeable time watching his face twist in concentration. The sunglasses help, but he can tell the sun will be setting soon, and he doesn’t have a good reason to be wearing them anymore. He sighs and takes them off as he stands up, and when he puts them down next to him, it’s the first time he thinks Andrés has actually bothered to look at him in hours. “I’m getting back in,” he announces, one last attempt to get his full attention. He’s been trying to catch his eye all day, but Andrés was too busy watching birds and chasing pretty women. He hasn’t even touched the water. Martín’s more than ready to just return home and throw himself under the covers, trying to pretend that today went better for him than he knows it did.

Andrés only nods and flips the page, not even bothering to spare Martin another look. His chest twists, and he has to fight the urge not to grab the book out of his hands and hit him with it. All he wants is just a few moments of his affection. That’s all, and today, he doesn’t even get that. He knows he’ll get even less of it as the days go by, because Sergio wants to come visit them. He shouldn’t be jealous considering Andrés isn’t his, and Sergio is his family, his brother. Being jealous of Andrés’ younger brother, especially after everything he’s heard about Sergio’s childhood, is possibly one of the lowest points he’s hit thus far. But he can’t help the way his chest tightens when he sees Andrés hold Sergio tight against him, kissing his cheek with more love than Martín has ever received. (It runs deeper than just wanting that from Andrés, he knows, but he can’t face it. He left Buenos Aires years ago for a reason.)

Sergio’s supposed to come visit them in their new apartment they bought with money they got from robbing small jewellery stores here and there. It’s a nice place, Martín agrees, but he hates watching Andrés show it off to lines of women they’ll never see again. He’s tired of trying to fall asleep with a pillow over his head because he can’t bear listening to the sounds of satisfactory and ecstatic noises coming through the wall. If he wasn’t so sure Andrés would make a comment he doesn’t want to hear about how good in bed he must be, he might have said something by now. 

He takes off his shirt, tossing it over by Andrés. He glances at it for a second, and Martín huffs and turns away. If that’s what it takes to grab his attention, he’ll throw himself at him too.

He steps into the water, glad they were finally alone. There were a few tourists here earlier, but they’ve all gone for dinner or back to their hotels, and Martín can’t say he’s complaining. He feels the sand move under his feet, the waves softly splashing against his calves. He keeps going until the water’s at his midriff, high enough to rock him. When he’s in the water, he understands why Andrés feels at peace here. He thinks about the stories Andrés told him, of when he was younger and would bring Sergio out to stand by the shore when he was feeling strong enough. He was really just quite sweet when he wasn’t being moody and overdramatic, like a pouting child who isn’t getting his way, but Martín can’t say he doesn’t love that side of him too.

He glances back at Andrés, and is taken aback when he sees the man staring at him. He’s too far to discern any emotion on his face, and almost begins to get closer when he realises Andrés probably isn’t looking at him, but rather at the array of red and pink behind him, and turns away. He dunks down underwater, and wipes what he can away from his eyes before looking up. It really is a beautiful sight. Yet again, Andrés was in the right for convincing Martín to stay. (Andrés 2, Martín 0.) 

He turns at the sound of Andrés’ voice carrying over the water, but it doesn’t go far enough for him to quite understand what’s being said, so he swims closer. When he finally stops, Andrés moves closer to the shore. “Would you stay up here? I’ll be joining you in a moment and I want to go out with you.”

Martín freezes for a moment, processing his words, before nodding. Andrés smiles and goes back to his page, and Martín can’t help but to stare at him, stunned. He might actually get to have Andrés focus on him? Not the turnout he had been expecting. He manages to pull his eyes away, looking out at the water, but it pales in comparison to the divine being beside him. He’s so divine, and Martín considers the concept of Andrés painting the sky before them, meticulously putting every cloud into the right space. But he’s seen Andrés bleed (he helped him stitch up his hand after cutting his palm on a broken display case, almost surprised to see it’s not golden ichor pumping through his veins), seen him cry (only just the once though, and he knows Andrés would have contained it if he had the option. A health scare with Sergio that had put him back into the hospital allowed Martín to see a side he’d never seen before, and hasn’t seen since. Red-rimmed dark eyes met his and it was such a human flaw in someone who must have been hand-crafted by the gods), and he has to remind himself that Andrés isn’t anything greater than himself. Too bad it doesn’t mean he looks any less heavenly when the light hits him in the right way, or when he looks at Martín with that gaze that implies maybe, just maybe, he could feel something more than friendship for him, even if it’s only temporary.

But Martín knows it’s ridiculous to even let himself consider the possibility. 

They go back to the silence they had found before, but the book is angled away from him this time. He knows he won’t get what he wants so easily if he tries to rush him, so he lets Andrés work, focusing on the water until Martín sees the impossible: Andrés actually puts the sketchbook away in his bag. He laughs, and Andrés turns to give him a confused look. “I was worried you had forgotten that you brought me along with you,” he explains, and Andrés chuckles as he shakes his head. “Keep that mindset. It’s always important to believe in the impossible.” 

Martín’s eyes lock onto the sight of him taking off his shirt. It’s not often he gets to see Andrés in less than a suit, so he’s going to enjoy it, but his words still linger in Martín’s mind, and if he didn’t know him so well, he might have asked what he meant. (If he had, Andrés would smile, comment about how he already knows what it means, and it would be like the question was never asked in the first place.)

He stands as Andrés nears the water, wet sand clinging to his legs. They walk together, into the vast blue around them. In his mind, he plays pretend for just a moment, because it’s safer in his head. Andrés can’t turn him down or deny him or tell him off in his head, not if he doesn’t want him to. He pretends that they’re lovers, taking a romantic walk through the ocean on a date night. After this, they’ll dry each other off and Andrés will take him out to a nice restaurant, where they can have the ideal candlelit dinner that his husband so loves. Then Andrés will scoop him up and take him home to their apartment, lie him down in their bed, where they can do unholy things to each other until they fall asleep in one another’s arms. 

He knows how unlikely and foolish even having the thought is. He knows all too well about how that will never happen, which is why he keeps his mouth shut. The further he shoves down those thoughts and feelings and pushes it away with impassive blowjobs in dirty bar bathrooms that leave Martín sick to his stomach as he drives home to Andrés - the better it is, for both of them. But with the way Andrés looks at him, the warmth of his hand on his back, heat spreading across his bare skin.. he can almost believe it. 

They go farther than Martín had before, and the water‘s only getting colder as the sky darkens. Andrés stops for a moment, dipping down into the ocean, and Martín’s eyes are glued to him as he comes up, watching the way he slicks his hair out of his face, the water droplets running down his skin and-

He swallows hard, looking down at the space between them. Andrés has no idea what’s running through his mind, and Martín’s glad for that. He might run if he knows of the obscene thoughts about him in his head. 

He snaps out of it when he feels water splash against his face, and catches Andrés laughing. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he jokes, and Martín splashes back. “Sorry, I thought I saw your last wife behind you. Or maybe it was the one before that. Or maybe th-”

He sputters, saltwater on his tongue. Grimacing, he uses his leg to hook around Andrés and pull. Andrés shouts, grabbing onto Martín’s arm to drag him down too. Martín stumbles as Andrés uses him to balance, wrapping his arms around his torso. It isn’t until he feels the rumble of Andrés’ laugh running through his body, shaking his very core, to realise just how close they were. He feels comfort in his arms, and can’t bring himself to move. (He imagines that he leans in, kissing him passionately like they’re the leads of some silly romance film they’d mock together, and that Andrés could love him back. He shoves the urge deep down inside him, frustrated that he’d even let himself believe something as stupid as that. Andrés doesn’t love him. Not like that, at least. He knows this, and yet, Martín loves him anyway.) It feels like hours they stand there together, but not nearly enough when Andrés unwraps himself from Martín’s body. It’s fine, he tells himself. There was only so long they could have stayed like that without it getting weird. Andrés is his best friend. Nothing more, nothing less. He‘s got that through his head, but it’s his heart who can’t let him go. 

Andrés looks up above them as if nothing happened, as if he didn’t just rock Martín’s entire being just with a touch. Even wet, his hair curls at the ends, already starting to stick out on the back of his head. It’s cute, really. Almost as cute as the childlike wonder in his eyes as he looks at the scenery around them. Martín doesn’t say anything. He couldn’t possibly disrupt him now. 

They linger out in the ocean. Martín wishes he doesn’t have to go back, but he has to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering, and he can see Andrés shivering, even if he won’t admit to it. He starts heading back towards the land, and Andrés ends up following closely behind him. He feels an arm snake around him, and he keeps his eyes focused ahead of him, trying not to think about it too long. They only go for a few steps before Martín pulls him close in return. It’s for the warmth, of course. He’s always liked how hands-on Andrés is though, how he really seems to enjoy leaving a hand somewhere on Martín’s body. (What a tease. If only just once he’d let it sit just a little lower-)

When they make it back to their bags, he goes straight for Andrés’ towel, wrapping it around him. He shrugs Martín off, insisting he’s fine, he doesn’t need the help. Reluctantly, he goes for his own towel, but it’s not the same. Not now that he’s had Andrés around him. 

They make it back to the car, and Andrés refuses to let him in until the towels completely cover the seats. He tries to argue that the towels are already wet, meaning it won’t do much good for reserving the state of the seats, but he gives in and lets him win. He always lets him win. His heart flutters when he sees Andrés flash that bright, crooked smile that scrunches up his whole face. (Some days, Martín can’t help but wonder how he ever got himself involved with criminals and thieves and Andrés, but then he lets that smile show, and he falls in love all over again. He can’t stop it. It’s an exhausting cycle.)

It’s too quiet in the car. The only words exchanged are something about Andrés wanting to make dinner and Martín agrees without any consideration. He ends up turning on the radio and letting that play because his thoughts are too loud.

He watches the city pass by, lights flashing and mere glimpses into the lives of others. He can’t bear to turn the other way, to acknowledge the happy humming next to him. It will only make him ache for what he can never fully have. Every touch, every second Andrés lingers on his body is blissful, but he’s always left unsatisfied, hungry for more. He’s Tantalus and Andrés is his fruit tree and his pool of water, starved yet eternally denied. He can’t help but wonder what greedy sacrifice he made to have to be punished like this.

They make it up to their apartment without another word passed between them. He sets his things down on his bed and tells Andrés he’s going to take a shower, getting “leave the water running when you’re done, I want to rinse off” in response before the older man disappears into the kitchen. 

He tosses the still-damp shorts onto the floor, knowing he’ll have Andrés jump down his throat if he leaves them there. He thinks he might, just to lovingly bother him. Martín steps into the shower, letting the hot water run down his back. 

He doesn’t really know when he accepted that his emotions run deeper than some silly infatuation. He likes to think it wasn’t until he first even remotely considered his feelings for Andrés, first put the four letter word on the back of his tongue just to swallow it, but he knows it was far before then. Perhaps it had been the time he let his mind wander during an afternoon alone, his hand working lazily below his waist while Andrés took whichever girlfriend he had been on at the time to lunch. 

It hadn’t been until he was laying there with a fist full of cum and his heart pounding hard enough to shake his entire body that it had even occurred to him what he’d gotten off to - or rather, who he’d gotten off to. Martín stared up at the ceiling, happy and dumb, until the afterward realisation hit. The image of such a familiar face between his thighs, which had excited him just moments prior, caused shock, frustration, and disgust to run through him as he quickly wiped off his hand. With tears streaming down his face, he scrubbed at his hands under the faucet until it hurt, and then scrubbed harder until they turned bright red and raw. Scraping at his hands wouldn’t erase what he let himself think of, nor would it atone for his actions, but he had to try. If he rubbed hard enough, perhaps the mental image he had came to of Andrés going down on him would go down the drain too, but it was no use. It was burned into his mind, and he wouldn’t let himself meet Andrés’ eyes later that night. He didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve the affection Andrés gave him. Not after what he’d done. 

But it started far earlier than that, he’s certain. No, to say it was any sooner than the minute a young, vibrant, and passionate man with dark doe-like eyes (he let himself be fooled, because to imply he was a harmless doe or any mere semblance of innocence makes you a fool) and an unfaltering smile plastered on his face sat down next to him at the bar with questions about gold and banks and money and what Martín had assumed was just metaphor - it would be a lie to say anything else. If Andrés had never found out he was an engineer, he wouldn’t have given him a second glance. It might have been better for him that way, rather than longing for something he’d never get, but he’s used to the way his heart gently falls apart when he sees a new girl dragged along at Andrés’ arm. Pain and desire are his closest friends, after all, he’s grown to know them so intimately. He knows them in ways he can only dream of knowing with Andrés. So he settles for the way Andrés inadvertently tears him apart and puts him back together again, over and over. 

He’ll never admit it out loud, but he’s desperately afraid that there will be a time in which Andrés won’t put him back together. He knows it’ll happen, he just wants to delay it for as long as he possibly can. In the meantime, he can enjoy the fleeting moments he gets with Andrés as he buries himself in his work. Martín likes to tell himself that he existed just fine before Andrés, but it won’t be the same when (not if) he goes. He’s grown far too used to feather light touches running up his arm, soft praises for his abilities and his genius. After all, he’s the brilliant mind who helped figured out how to crack the most famous avenue in France, right? It’s their next hit, even the tickets are booked for Paris. 

He’s worried they won’t pull it off, will barely get out a cent out along the Champs-Élysées, but Andrés has the steadiest hands he’s ever seen. He has the hands of a surgeon and the grace of a dancer. It’s what makes him such a great artist, such a remarkable thief. Martín doesn’t think he’s ever even seen them tremble once when he’s focused. He’d love to really see what those hands can do- 

He steps out when he’s done, grabbing Andrés’ towel when he realises he forgot to grab his own. Their clothes get mixed up so often that it doesn’t matter at this point whether he brings his own in for the man to use or just gives him the one wrapped now around his waist. He’s not worried about leaving the bathroom like that either, because it’s not as though they haven’t seen each other in much more compromising situations, and it’s just them. He has Andrés all to himself tonight.

Or so he thought. 

Martín walks into the kitchen with a smile that falters when he sees the newest addition to the room that certainly was not there at all when he got in the shower. A girl with bright auburn hair stands at the counter, where he thought he himself would get to be, chatting softly with Andrés. He doesn’t know what the context is, doesn’t want to know, but it leads to her leaning in to meet Andrés’ lips, so he clears his throat before she gets the chance. “The water’s ready for you,” he states flatly, looking at the space between the two to avoid making eye contact with either of them. “Ah, yes! Excuse me for just a moment, darling,” Andrés purrs, getting handsy below the counter, and almost slips by him without even the merest glance, when he exclaims, “Martín! We have company.”

He laughs and tenderly squeezes Martín’s arm, almost as if to reassure him, before disappearing into the bathroom. 

Martín doesn’t even acknowledge the girl’s existence before going off to his room. He delivers the neatly folded towel from his dresser to the bathroom, since he doesn’t exactly think going around nude right now is the best idea. He doesn’t mind the idea of Andrés seeing him stripped whatsoever, but this girl... he doesn’t want her to be around regardless of what he’s wearing. But it’s what Andrés wants. So he dresses himself and goes back with fake mirth adorning his face, quietly acquiescing as he continues where Andrés left off on the food. 

“I’m so sorry if I’m interrupting anything. I didn’t know anyone else would be here. He didn’t tell me he had a roommate,” she rushes out, nervously pressing her hands together. “He didn’t tell me you were coming either. I didn’t even think you two were... close. Sometimes I forget how much he just loves surprises.” 

She must have missed the bitterness easing into his words as she laughs, light and songlike, and the tension around her loosens. “He told me about you too. From the way he talks about you, I thought you must have been his best friend or something, but I didn’t know you lived with him. He didn’t tell me your place was so nice either.” She runs her meticulously manicured fingers on the island counter, and Martín looks up at her as he sets the knife down. “I hope I’m not unwelcome here.” By her tone, it‘s obvious she’s seeking out validation from him. He doesn’t want to oblige her. 

“If Andrés wants you to be here, so do I.” He obliges her anyway, because while her feelings don’t matter to him, Andrés’ do. He could turn her out now, suggest that they’re actually together and act innocent and naive when he sees the hurt on her face - ‘wait, you didn’t know?’ - but he is not that kind of person. Maybe Sergio’s right, and they do spend too much time together. He doesn’t know what Andrés has told her, about himself, about what they do for a living, but she doesn’t seem the thieving type. He heavily doubts she knows anything. 

If he conveniently left a news article on the table, or the wrong channel on, just the slight implication that everything is not what it seems, she’d figure it out and walk out on him. She’d be completely out of the picture and the problem would be solved. But he has morals, and he knows how wrong that would be. Not to mention, the little voice in the back of his mind playing on repeat like a broken record prevents him from even considering it. The words that threaten to stop his heart fill him with enough dread to ensure he’ll never do anything of the sort because he knows they must be true. Andrés would never forgive him. He’d rather put a bullet through his brain before even thinking about hurting Andrés. 

“You can sit down, by the way. The living room’s right through there, or there are seats over there,” he gestures with the knife, and her shoulders relax as she sits down on one of the stools at a counter on the other side of the room. He sets the knife down when he sees Andrés walk back into the room, glad to be relieved of any more small talk. Andrés carries the conversation now, the spotlight of attention immediately drifting to him. Martín knows how to be confident where it counts, but he’s never understood how Andrés manages to steal a room so easily, so effortlessly. It’s a strange ability for a man whose entire job relies on the ability to remain inconspicuous and unnoticed.

Martín sits down next to the girl, who Andrés finally introduces as Belén. It’s a pretty name, he tells her. A pretty name for a pretty girl. The kind of pretty Martín will never be able to compete with, not in Andrés’ eyes. But it’s fine. Nameless guys who pound him senseless into his mattress until the last thing on his mind is Andrés think he’s pretty enough. If he had a euro for every single time he’s heard someone compare his eyes to the ocean, he’d have enough money to compete with the amount Sergio estimates he’ll get from his little Royal Mint heist. It’s all the satisfaction he needs, even if he sometimes considers the idea of trying to get into a more long term relationship. Stupid idea, really, because those only ever end with crying and fighting, and he doesn’t have the time for that kind of stress in his life. He’s too busy collecting diamonds with handsome boys.

They eat dinner together. As the time passes and Belén opens up more, he thinks she may not be as insufferable as he first thought. She’s kind, too kind for the likes of someone like Andrés. Martín imagines the older man will get bored of her and break it off. He won’t try to stop it himself though, because it’s not his place. He doesn’t have the patience to comfort heartbroken girls who will have moved on within a few months time when he could be already deciding on their next location to hit. Besides, he has his own fucking issues to deal with. Any straight man with taste would want a girl with her looks; she’ll rebound easy. People like Martín don’t get to be that lucky.

He pretends he doesn’t hear Andrés flirting, looks away when he catches winks and devilish smirks that imply things he doesn’t want to consider. Unfortunately, there are only so many times he can hide around his glass before it becomes noticeable. 

He goes to bed with a pillow over his head, attempting to drown out the whimpers and whines from the neighbouring room. When they move, his main priority will be investing in thicker walls. Out of all of the reminders of the things he’ll never get to experience with Andrés, this is certainly one he doesn’t mind removing. He’s been meaning to ask if Andrés even knows how thin the walls are. If he even cares. If Martín can manage to remember it in the morning after Belén leaves, he’ll say something. He tends to avoid bringing his men over when he knows Andrés is home, out of respect and to avoid the uncomfortable ‘you sounded like you were enjoying yourself last night’ comments afterwards. He can’t bear the way Andrés’ eyes subtly flit down to the strained way he walks, the expression on his face when he sees Martín sitting awkwardly in a chair to avoid putting too much pressure on whatever bruises are left behind. 

Andrés once lifted up his shirt without notice to get a better look at a particularly nasty array of purple on his hip. Martín shoved him off almost immediately; he had no claim to him, no right to care about what he did in his free time. They never discussed it, but the look that had been on Andrés’ face still upsets him. In all of the time they’ve known each other, Andrés had never been the nursing type. He wouldn’t help bandage your cut or kiss your wound better. But that flicker of what Martín can only describe as worry in his eyes haunts him. In some other life, he would have waited to see what Andrés said or did, whether he conveyed clear worry for Martín or just flat disapproval to make his heart sink. Martín’s known him for years and still can’t fully figure him out. At this point, he’s given up. It’s easier to fall in line with what Andrés wants anyways. 

He buries himself in the pillow and doesn’t pull it off of his head until-

(He’s not sure what time it is, doesn’t care. His feet pull themselves to Andrés’ door, and he opens it without wanting to. He feels like an intruder in his own body, and an intruder in the room when he opens it to reveal Andrés fucking some girl into his bed, breathy gasps filling the room, filling Martín’s brain, until it’s all that he can focus on. The girl under him is faceless, as if her features are a forgotten afterthought, but Martín’s not paying much attention to her either way. He watches Andrés and he feels like he’s burning away, or at least he should be, because he shouldn’t be here. Andrés hasn’t kicked him out yet, for some reason, and he wants to crawl out of his own skin. 

Andrés looks up at him, and a smile stretches across his face as though he’s actually okay with this. But no, it’s not his usual smile, it’s something dark and predatory and the glint in his eyes makes Martín think he’ll bend him over and eat him alive. He can’t move and he’s panicking and he’s spiraling and maybe if he saws himself apart, Andrés will put him back together. 

Andrés tilts his head back so that his chin juts out and his neck is on full display. He places a hand over where her face should be, might be, and moans out Martín’s name, something desperate and aching. If Martín had been blind, he would have taken it as an invitation. But it brings Martín to his knees, absolutely toppling him, and he curls into himself until-)

Until Andrés’ moan is still lingering in his mind, echoing like something vague and faraway, and Martín has to rack his drowsy brain to figure out whether what he saw has actually happened or not. It still feels so real, like a false memory implanted into him. He assesses his true surroundings before throwing off the covers and heading off into the bathroom. The light flooding in leaves a soft haze over the room, and the apartment is much more silent than it was when he drifted off. 

Andrés always wakes up before him. It’s just how it works. It’s how it’s always worked. Martín stares at himself in the mirror and isn’t sure if it’s himself looking back anymore. He hardly recognises the man in front of him, the one who’s so different from the boy in Buenos Aires who collected bruises to show his love. He’s different from the man he’ll be years from now too, who sobs into old robes with a faded smell that haven’t touched their owner’s skin in years. Some crude mixture of him and the Buenos Aires boy that couldn’t differentiate pain from pleasure if his life depended on it, but that’s not a future Martín ever would have predicted for himself as he stands before that mirror, wondering which of his decisions could have brought him here.

The apartment’s dreadfully empty and cold when he makes it to the kitchen, and he knows he’ll have to make something himself. He can cook rather well, he just likes it more when Andrés does it. Andrés, who treats every bite like it’s a slice from heaven, who serves every meal like it could be his last. Martín could never compete with that.

It doesn’t look like Andrés has even touched the kitchen since last night, and he thinks he can hear him in his own room, the one that Martín is almost certain that he didn’t go into last night. He pretends he can’t hear Belén too as he rummages through the fridge to grab ingredients. He’s already opening things when Andrés makes it into the kitchen, and Martín pretends he doesn’t see the way Andrés stumbles like he can hardly feel his legs, nor the satisfactory shit-eating grin on his face. It makes his stomach churn and he has to step back for a moment to calm down. Andrés takes it as his invitation to take over, and he pulls a stool up to the island, sitting down on the other side. It’s not until he sees the dark mark creeping out of Andrés’ robe on his neck that he almost says something, but he bites his tongue and balls his fists as he stares down at the polished marble instead. It’s not his place to be jealous; Andrés has never been his. He has to remind himself of this so often. But he can’t help the envy stirring inside of him, the anger that rises in him at the sight of Belén leaning against the doorframe.

The only thing she has on is a shirt of Andrés’, which falls past her waist and is clearly too big for her. Martín understands what he sees in her, but that doesn’t make it any easier on him. He feels guilty for it, but he mentally picks out her flaws, trying to rationalise something in his mind. Her face is too square, too long. It makes her look manly. He swears one of her eyes is bigger than the other. Her mouth is crooked. (But isn’t that what he loves about Andrés’ mouth too?) She’s too sweet. Too kind. Too caring. She’s only going to get hurt, end up with the same mascara-marked tears like all the other girls that leave here. No matter how hard he tries to make her imperfect, it doesn’t work. She wraps her arms around Andrés while he cooks. He exclaims something bright and happy, plants a kiss on her cheek, and Martín walks out. He thinks maybe he hears Andrés shout after him, but he doesn’t care. He slips on his shoes and goes until he’s out of the apartment. 

He hears the door behind him, but keeps going despite the close footsteps following him. He goes until he’s outside, and when he turns, the small hope in him diminishes immediately. It’s not Andrés.

“I’m sorry, I know I’m probably the last person you want to see,” Belén says. Martín imagines himself asking her if she could read minds. He still denies it with a smile, even though she insists. “You hate me,” and this, Martín can honestly disagree with. “I don’t hate you.” (‘I hate the fact that you’re sleeping with the love of my life.’)

“I just needed some air,” he explains, and she looks down at her feet, hiding her face with her hands. “I must look stupid now that I came all the way down here then.” He laughs, and shrugs when she peers through her fingers to gauge his reaction. “Andrés just frustrates me sometimes.” He’s deliberate with his half-truths, every word carefully chosen. “I can’t blame you. He’s so stubborn sometimes.”

Martín watches the morning traffic pass by them. He realises she’s put on pants, but the shirt still looks out of place. It’s still too big on her. He wants her to take it when she leaves and burns it. He never wants to see it again. He’ll throw it in the trash if she returns it. 

”He’s persistent. He knows what he wants, and he goes for it. It’s more than I can say for myself.” Belén doesn’t think much of his words, or if she does, she doesn’t push him further on it. “I love it too, even though it can wear me down. He’s so passionate and romantic though; it makes up for it.” Martín clears his throat to keep from frowning at the lovesick daze on her face. She opens her mouth to add on, but he blurts out, “have you met his brother yet?”

Belén hesitates as she puts aside whatever she was going to say, and shakes her head. “I don’t know about his past or his family or anything. He won’t tell me or answer my questions. I thought he must have a bad home life if it’s such a touchy subject.” Martín softens at the frustration in her voice, because he understands the feeling. He remembers threatening to leave him for good if Andrés refused to let him meet Sergio after finding an old picture of the two of them in a drawer somewhere, and rubs the back of his neck. 

“It’s not my place to tell you, but... I’ll take the blame. Ask to meet Sergio and explain that I told you he had a brother. But that’s all I told you, understand?” She nods quickly, her lips pressed together to suppress a smile. “That’s if you intend on making this a serious thing though.”

Belén’s eyebrows knit together, and she cocks her head like a dog while she frowns. Martín changes his mind and decides no, he doesn’t get what Andrés sees in her. “He hasn’t told you? He invited me to move in. I thought he talked to you about it. If it’s a problem at all, I can tell him off, I don’t mind.” It’s clear in her voice she does mind. Martín briefly entertains the idea of smashing something through the window of the car on the curb in front of them, and can’t decide whether he’d prefer it to be her head or his own. Andrés usually asks him, but why would he bother? Martín’s never had a problem with it before. He’s so compliant, so considerate. Such a good best friend. “It’s not a problem,” he lies, gritting his teeth when he smiles at her. She pulls him into a tight hug when she thanks him, and he can smell Andrés’ shampoo on her skin. 

“I was so worried that you hated me, but I’m glad that’s not the case. Hopefully this means we can be friends? Andrés is always going on about you,” she grips onto his hands and he can’t do anything but pretend to be happy for her, “and I’d love to get to know you more. We were talking this morning and he suggested going out to dinner tonight, all three of us, if that doesn’t interfere with any plans of yours.” He can make something up. He has other friends, he can call them and schedule something. He has the ability to get out of this, to avoid sitting there while Andrés blows kisses at Belén and bury himself in his food or a menu to pretend he doesn’t see Andrés’ hand dipping between her thighs. (It should be him. It should be him. It should be-)

“Of course, I’d be delighted.” She plants a quick peck on his cheek before pulling him back into the building. Words are coming out of her mouth, or at least that’s what he thinks by the way her mouth is moving, and her hand never leaves his as she brings him into the elevator, but he doesn’t pay attention. It doesn’t feel like he’s there. His body is heavy, holding him to the floor, but he feels weightless. The heat from her skin is searing into his. He feels sick. Martín uses his free hand to briefly cover his mouth while he forces what had been his dinner hours ago back down his throat. Belén asks if he’s okay, leaning in and won’t stop fucking touching him, and he reassures her that he’s fine, that it must have been the elevator. 

She finally lets go of him when they leave the elevator, but he’s still not free. He has to go through Andrés’ questions and deal with Belén giving a rundown of their talk and the inevitable mention of the elevator incident before he can even think about getting away to his room so he can throw up and maybe cry in the shower before scarfing down whatever Andrés made them for breakfast.

He can’t tell Andrés how he feels, regardless of whether he’s single or not. He can’t take the risk of losing him. If he did tell Andrés, laid his entire heart out for him to see, he’s not sure where he’d go from there whether Andrés felt the same way or not. If he didn’t, Martín thinks he’d never fully recover. He’d completely fall apart. Maybe one day he’d find the strength to pick up his broken pieces and squeeze them into something that might resemble himself long enough until he disappears, until Death stakes his claim and takes Martín’s last breath with an ethereal kiss- but if Andrés did return Martín’s feelings? If by some chance, Hell freezes over and Andrés finds it within himself to somehow love another man as he never has before? Martín has grown far too familiar with the concept of rejection to even begin to prepare himself for the slim chance of Andrés wanting him in any way beyond friendship. 

But as Martín walks down the hall, he does prepare himself to play the unassuming role of the happy best friend, the best man - never the lover nor the groom, no, those are roles reserved for Andrés, a slice of his life he’ll never get. He will play his part as he always has done, and hopefully, he will play it well enough that Andrés won’t even consider recasting before his time on Earth is up. 

(And oh, Martín doesn’t even know how soon that will be, how Andrés’ body is already on a path of self-destruction, how the countdown for their time together is ticking faster than ever. He should have expected it. There are only so many ways the tale of two soulmates could end.)

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me about LCDP or how awful my writing is --  
> Twitter: @erikgelden  
> Instagram: @gordonstanheight  
> Tumblr: @asterthetic


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